


burning up choices

by Kisatsel



Category: Do No Harm (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Hotel Sex, Interrogation, M/M, Post-Canon, Ruben lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/pseuds/Kisatsel
Summary: “It’s alright, sweetheart,” Ian says wearily. “I know you don’t like airports. We’ll be out of here soon enough.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenjaneapprox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenjaneapprox/gifts).



> This ended up a lot less dubcon than I originally planned, but still contains Ian being his terrible self, fucked up power dynamics and also violence and sex existing in proximity. 
> 
> With enormous thanks to queenjaneapprox for her donation through FBFA. 
> 
> This fic kind of avoids the tricky details of the Ian/Jason changeover, and also like... all of the plot reveals from the finale, wtf was going on there. Now with hopefully no typos.

Ruben spends most of his flight looking out of the window, past the gray slice of the plane’s wing, past the small scuds of cloud to the ocean far below, as deep and blue as the sky itself. Of course you can’t outrun fear like this, even if you take to the sky. Dread clings. Dread follows you with heavy footfalls and reads your mind, reads your fucking technicolor screensaver over your shoulder and follows you all the way to paradise. 

“I assume you’ve booked a hotel,” Ian says. “A single room in some shabby mid-range place with a pool.” Ruben closes his eyes and doesn’t turn round; his shoulders hunch up. “I’ll take that as a yes. You won’t need it. I blew some of Jason’s cash, got us a better place.”

“Us,” Ruben says. 

“You and me. I think we’d benefit from having somewhere private, to... talk. Mm?” 

Ruben stares very hard at the faraway sea, like maybe if he looks hard enough, difficult questions like _will Ian finally succeed in making me an accessory to murder or will I die first,_ and _did my family listen when I told them to get out of town_ will fade away. They don’t. 

It’s an entire miserable eternity, and hardly any time at all, before they land. Ian puts a hand on Ruben’s wrist, over the armrest, and squeezes. “Time to go. Grab your stuff.”

Ruben’s stiff and tired and he really needs to pee and he would like to stay right here in his seat until a concerned cabin assistant comes to see why the sweaty Latino dude won’t get his ass off the plane and sees the terror in his eyes, takes him and ushers him into a room for private interrogation of some kind, a room where Ian is not and Ruben can explain that the guy who was sat next to him on the plane wants to hurt him. All he has to do is stay still. 

Ian takes hold of his arm and pulls impatiently. “Ruben. It is in your best interests to move. You don’t want me to think you’re unwilling to cooperate.” 

Nowhere to run on a plane, nothing to gain from being forcibly ejected, but airports are full of people and police officers. Ruben flicks his eyes over to Ian and jerks a nod. 

“Good,” Ian says. He hauls their hand luggage down from the overhead locker. Ruben’s passport is in that bag. Can’t get to it, can’t ask for it. The aisle empties slowly, people shuffling forward; they stand, stooped awkwardly, and join the flow. 

The sun hits them with a blast of sudden warmth when they step outside, searingly bright. Ian takes Ruben’s hand in his as they walk down the stairs from the plane, his grip like steel, and strides towards the dull slab of the airport building, fast enough that Ruben has to scurry to catch up or be dragged along like a wayward child. 

Ian roots through Ruben’s bag while they’re waiting in line for passport control and Ruben’s heart sets up a staccato thudding - fuck fuck fuck the notebook the notebook - but Ian says nothing, just hands him his passport. Ian’s waiting for Ruben on the other side, and grabs his hand again. With a sickening surety Ruben feels his options closing off, pictures doors slamming shut around him. 

“What are you, my boyfriend,” he mutters irritably. 

“Let’s find a taxi, Rubes,” Ian says with a wide shark’s smile. He leads them through the hall, past the luggage carousel. Ruben spies his suitcase and tries to worm his sweaty hand out of Ian’s grip. No dice.

“Wait,” Ruben says. He tugs sharply. “My bag. I need my bag.” 

“No, you don’t.” Ian keeps walking. 

A fresh stab of panic. “Ian!”

A woman turns to look at them. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Ian says wearily. “I know you don’t like airports. We’ll be out of here soon enough.” He squeezes hard enough to crush Ruben’s fingers together and picks up the pace. 

\---

The hotel Ian’s booked is _nice_. Shiny tiled floor in the hotel lobby, high ceilings, smiling concierges and guests strolling past in shorts and loose dresses. Ruben’s fingers are numb by this point and a sense of surreal despair has set in. The strangest thing about this ordeal is that it keeps happening. 

“Don’t worry,” Ian had whispered to him in the taxi. “You give me what I want, and this goes fine. You and your family are safe.”

“You won’t find them. They’ve left town.”

“You think they believed you when you told them they were in danger? Get real, Ruben.” 

Ian had rolled his eyes, like calling Ruben’s bluff is so insultingly easy that it’s hardly worth the effort. This doesn’t bode well. 

“Yes,” Ian is saying, “One night, that’s all. I expect we’ll be checking out later today.”

Ruben opens his mouth to say _let go of me, Ian!_ as loud as he can, and then the lady at the desk smiles warmly at him. “Sure you won’t stay longer? You look like you’re really ready for a vacation,” she says. 

“You have no idea,” Ian says smoothly. “I’ll take those. Thanks.” He scoops the key cards into his pocket. 

“Stop,” Ruben says hurriedly. Ian turns to look at him, unable to hide his irritation. “Stop, this isn’t right, this isn’t, he’s not my--”

“I _told_ you,” Ian cuts in, teeth gritted, “Jason won’t find out, he’s never gonna know about this trip.”

The concierge winces.

“It’s gonna stay between you and me, right?” Ian says, eyes hard. “We’ll talk about this in the room.”

“Room four seven eight, fifth floor,” she tells them, smile fixed, “Enjoy your stay. We’ll have that suitcase brought up. ”

Ian yanks Ruben so hard his arm wrenches, and whispers, “What part of threats against your family did you not _get_ ,” and then they’re moving again.

Ruben looks behind him and sees the concierge directing a concerned look their way, writing something down, but then she’s turning towards a man in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts who’s drumming his fingers on the desk impatiently and Ian has got him as far as the elevators and the doors are opening and Ian pushes him in, jams his finger on the button and the doors slide closed, that bright lobby closing to a sliver and disappearing before his eyes. 

They move slowly upwards and Ian seizes Ruben by the back of the neck and slams him against the mirrored wall, hard enough that Ruben’s chin hits with a crack and pain judders through his jaw. He can see his own eye reflected back at him, a white and dark smudge blurry with the proximity and up against him hot and solid is Ian. Ian shakes him lightly, rattling his head against the glass, growling, bestial. Ruben tastes blood in his mouth, and tries to stay absolutely still. 

The elevator announces their arrival with a high-pitched ping and Ian releases him abruptly. Ruben stays with his face pressed against the glass - don’t move, don’t move, don’t provoke - as the doors slide open to reveal a gaggle of women talking in loud tones. They fall silent. 

“Let’s continue this in the room,” Ian says tersely, and yanks Ruben by the arm, shepherding him through the middle of the group. From behind him Ruben hears a whistle, giggles. He twists desperately, straining back towards the elevator, yells “He’s _kidnapping_ \--” but the corridor’s empty now and Ian claps a hand over his mouth; Ruben bites down on his palm hard and Ian curses and rips it away, deals him a dizzying blow to the head that has Ruben doubled over, ears ringing. Ian reaches for him and Ruben finds himself swung over Ian’s shoulder, kicking uselessly, presented with a view of gray patterned carpet, and a doorway, shiny floorboards, the slam of a door and then his world spins and he drops onto a mattress. 

He cradles his head. When he opens his eyes he sees Ian standing at the foot of the bed, jaw clenched. 

Ian looks down at him, arms folded across his chest. “Not good, Ruben.”

Ruben has to agree with this assessment of the situation. He might even stretch to really fucking bad. 

Ruben looks around. It’s nice enough, for a prison cell: a flat-screen TV on a table, chairs set in the alcove by the window. He swallows once, twice. “This is a deluxe suite. They’ll notice if you murder me in it.” 

“No one needs to get murdered.” Ian drops Ruben’s bag on the floor and unzips his own backpack. He takes out a pair of metal handcuffs and casts an eye over the bed. “Do I need to handcuff you to the radiator?” 

Ruben shakes his head rapidly. 

“Alright,” Ian says. “Sit up.” 

Ruben does so, gingerly. 

Ian approaches, takes his arms and puts them behind his back, and clips the handcuffs on him. Ruben sees him tuck the key in his pocket. The metal digs into his wrists when he tries moving his hands. Ian sits down next to Ruben, leaning back against the plush pillows, and grins at him. “What a shame. You came all this way and you won’t get to see the beach.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Ruben says. It comes out soft: terror, gripping like a hand on his throat, reducing him to barely more than a whisper.

“I have some questions I need you to answer. Information you’ve been withholding.”

“I haven’t,” Ruben says. 

Ian ignores him. “The chip. The chip they’re gonna put in my head to finally get Jason out of my life for good. What’s the metal. The platform. What is it?”

“Platinum.” Ruben meets his eyes, pleading. “You know this, you don’t need me.” 

“You’re lying.” Ian lays a hand heavy on his thigh. There’s threat hanging thick in the air of the room, the light streaming in, the sheets crisp and fresh beneath him. Everything pale and bright and Ian beside him like a sucking center of gravity, a crude force distorting the world around them to fit his needs. “I can’t abide liars, Ruben.” 

“It’s an experimental surgery. You, Jason, whatever, you wanna cut your head open and plant an electronic chip in there. I don’t know what’s gonna happen. Nobody does! Try platinum. Maybe one of you survives, maybe both, maybe neither. Try it and see.”

“You’re threatening me,” Ian says. He sounds fascinated. “You’re braver than you look, Dr Marcado. That’s how I know that you’re still lying.”

Ian stands. He walks over to the window, to each set of curtains, and twitches them closed one by one. The ceiling lamps cast a soft glow over the room. Ian comes round to Ruben’s side of the bed, puts two hands in the collar of his sweater, and drags him up. Ruben drops down hard on the floorboards on his knees, rabbit-heart hammering in his chest. 

Ian towers over him, radiating patient menace. “Want to tell me anything?”

Ruben grits his teeth and shakes his head minutely. He hears Ian click his tongue, doesn’t look up. 

It isn't hard to reach through to the soft core of Ruben. He's an easy mark. A word of thanks from a respected colleague will do it, a kiss on the cheek. He's weak for sincerity, which Jason knew and exploited frequently.

And, as he’s learned these past few weeks, if you’re short on patience, a well-aimed threat or a hard enough blow will do the job just as well. 

So he knows what’s coming in the long seconds before Ian backhands him casually across the face, but still Ruben jerks back: it _hurts_ , stupid, stupid to be surprised. _Think, think,_ he tells himself, _use your fucking brain for once, it isn’t like any other part of you is any use_. 

Ian drags him forward, his long arm stretching out to hook in the collar of Ruben’s sweater, and drives a knee into his chest, knocking Ruben flat on his back with hands trapped beneath him, metal cutting into this wrists. 

“I'll give you what you want,” Ruben babbles. “I already told you that. You don't have to torture it out of me. I told you, I'll keep working until I find something.” It isn't hard to make this sound real, when the terror is realer than anything he's ever felt.

Ian picks up Ruben’s hand luggage from where he dropped it on the floor on their way in and tips it out onto Ruben’s chest. Shades, sun lotion, a battered paperback that bounces onto the floor, condoms (oh, foolish optimism) strewn over his belly. And on top of the pile, his notebook. Ian picks it up and flicks through until he finds the last page with writing on it, the one that’s covered in hasty diagrams with the word _TITANIUM_ scrawled across it. 

“Care to tell me what this is?” Ian says.

Silence; damning silence.

Ian takes a step forward so he’s standing right over Ruben, kicks the shades to the side and places his foot on Ruben’s chest, grinds his heel down; the cuffs dig harder into Ruben’s hands beneath him and he lets out a sharp cry and scrambles back, cowering, until his head knocks against the bedside table and he sobs and Ian hauls him to his feet. 

“You're a rat down to your core, Ruben. Spit it out.”

That's when Ruben knows that his pathetic attempts at deception are over, that he loves his desperate, self-serving, lonely life more than he'll ever love Jason Cole. Ian will have Ruben's maggot guts spilled on the floor before the day is out and Ruben would rather it not be under the knife.

“Titanium,” Ruben says thickly. “It’s the platform.”

“Are you lying,” Ian says. 

“No!” It comes out plaintive, a cry ripped from his throat; Ruben wants to shield his face but he can’t, strains his arms uselessly, shoves his chin into his shoulder like that’ll protect him somehow. 

“Alright,” Ian says. He flicks through the pages of Ruben’s notebooks, squinting as if they might mean something to him. They won’t, none of them will, except for that one word. “Titanium. Very good. Thank you, Ruben.” He looks Ruben over, considering. “Okay. Our flights leave in three hours.”

“Our flights.” Ruben starts backing away, small steps, opening up some space between them. Ian lets him.

“Back to Philly. You’ll have to schedule your tropical vacation for some other time.”

“You’re letting me go home?” He gulps around the word. Home is a thankless job that consumes his life, an apartment empty but for shelves of books like old friends who look at him with gentle pity, running absurd errands for Jason, the same old questions about his love life though the answer never changes, but – it’s his, and right now he wants nothing more than to burrow down in it, to be anywhere but here in this room with Ian.

“I’m _making_ you go home. I want you there to answer for it if this surgery doesn’t go the way it’s supposed to.”

“Right.” Ruben sees it clearly now, and curses the blindness that led him to make this desperate, doomed attempt at running away. Ian can’t be controlled. Jason or Ian, someone’s got to be killed off, and right now Ian has the initiative. 

“You found it! You did it, Rubes.” Ian sounds jubilant. “You found the platform. You’re a genius. Sorry about your vacation. Once Jason’s outta here for good you can have the break you deserve. I’ll take you somewhere nicer than this. Upscale. The Bahamas.”

“You’ll… take me to the Bahamas.” Ruben hurts in a dozen different places, his throat dry and parched. 

“You did good! You came round eventually. Come on, we have an hour to kill.” Ian sprawls out on the bed, legs crossed, head resting on his arms. “Bad choice of words, maybe. Hey, let’s get some girls in here.”

“I don’t want girls!” Ruben says sharply. The indignity of it, to have broken this quickly, to be outwitted and beaten up by someone as goddamn predictable as Ian, who swings from violence to sex and back again, regular as a metronome. Ruben wonders if Ian even enjoys doing anything else. Drugs, he recalls. Drugs, and successfully completing wildly reckless ventures through the excessive application of brute force. 

Ian’s pouting at him. “Come on! I’m indulging you. Ruben, you made it all okay. I want to reward you.”

“You could start by taking these off me.” Ruben clacks his wrists together.

“Your wish, my command.”

Ruben suppresses the instinctive flinch when Ian approaches; Ian steps behind him and jiggles with the key until the cuffs slip off his wrists. Ian dangles them before him and then tosses them on the bed. Ruben shakes his shoulders out, lifts his hands to his face and turns them round, eying the deep imprints in his skin, the reddish purple of bruises forming.

Ian whistles. “Sorry about that. You’ve done the same to me.” He winks. Ruben chews at the inside of his lip. 

“Can I.” Screw asking permission. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Be my guest.” Ian gestures grandly to the en-suite, and picks up Ruben’s notebook again, settles back on the bed.

\---

There’s a lock on the door. Ruben has never been more pleased to see one of those little plastic bolts. He turns the shower on and peels himself out of his clothes. The water is cool, washing away the stickiness of travel, and when the cubicle steams up he could almost be in his own hotel room, safe, if it weren’t for the steady ache in his jaw and the red marks on his wrists, and the dry smarting in his eyes from tears that won’t come. He leans against the wall, adrenaline bleeding into exhaustion. 

Ruben washes himself carefully, thoroughly, lathering shampoo into his hair and letting it run in soapy trails over his chest and down his legs, and tries to remember what his plan is, if he ever had a plan. The plan is to stay alive and find a safe way to get the hell away when Ian’s hijacked murder operation goes down. 

He rubs his temple, unutterably weary. And yet. Ian’s got what he needs from him, Ruben thinks, and feels some of the worry slide off him along with the soap suds. This is just another stupid, horrible ordeal which he’ll get through and save up to talk about with the therapist he doesn’t have, because no one would believe this shit and besides that carefully looking away from certain unpalatable truths about his life is the strategy that’s got him to where he is today. And that’s been going _fine_ , hasn’t it, he’s doing _just great_. Ruben turns his face up to the faucet and lets the water wash the sting out of his eyes. 

Once he’s dried himself off and wrapped himself in the luxurious fluff of the hotel towel, Ruben screws up his courage and takes a look in the mirror.

The view is a little disappointing, if he’s honest; some messed up part of him had been almost hoping for a proper black eye, something to match the shocked rawness inside of him, to highlight the absurdity of Ian’s long-suffering boyfriend act, or whatever it is he’s trying to pull. He feels a little better, though, by the time he pulls his clothes back on. Guilt and anger simmering away but he can take a look at those some time when he’s not locked in a room with a psychopath.

“Okay,” he mutters to his reflection, “time to play nice.”

\---

Ian is stretched out on the bed with his eyes half-closed and the TV on, a muted jangle of commercials. Ruben seats himself in the chair by the window. There’s still a twitch of desire there when he looks at Ian, he notes. Unsurprising, when his crush on Jason took root years ago, watered by proximity and manly arm-claps and the intoxicating feeling of being necessary. Alarmingly, it seems if anything to have grown stronger since his recent spate of Ian-related near death experiences. 

“So,” Ruben says, attempting casual though his voice still comes out shaky. “How long till we set off for the airport?”

Ian glances at his watch, yawns widely. “Forty minutes. Too bad you wanted to hide in the bathroom. I know a friend of a friend who lives round here. She has lots of friends. Real fun girls.”

“Do all your friends of friends come over to have sex with you whenever you want or is that a euphemism for prostitute?” 

“I cultivate the right kind of friendships.”

The worst thing of all is that Ruben does want that, oh how he wants - a girl, not plural but just one, who would smile as she unbuttoned her shirt and let him put his mouth to her breast. He doesn’t want a girl purchased courtesy of Ian's callous benevolence, a reward for betraying everything he ever cared about; the thought makes him feel a little sick.

He stares at the floor. From over on the bed he hears Ian sigh loudly.

“Okay, no girls,” Ian says, aggrieved, as if this is a great concession. Ruben risks a glance over towards Ian. He’s unbuttoned his shirt halfway down, sleeves rolled up, tapping one foot against the mattress impatiently and glaring up at the ceiling. “ _Ruben_. There’s nothing worse than being stuck in a room with no toys.”

“We could leave,” Ruben points out. 

“I intend to spend as little time as possible keeping an eye on you in an airport, after what you pulled on the way here. So. What are we gonna do, you and me? Or rather, what are you gonna do to keep me entertained?”

Ruben clearly can’t learn self-preservation no matter how much danger he’s in, because he levels an incredulous glare at Ian. 

“Don’t be that way. Under other circumstances you would have loved this whole thing. The handcuffs, the luxury suite.”

Ruben blinks, and digs his fingers into his palm. Ian thinks shaking his secrets out of him can be followed by fucking him. Does he think the memory of terror can be brushed away by a careless, questioning touch? Does he think Ruben’s memory span is three fucking seconds, that Ian just needs to let his captive genius sit here in this room like a goldfish drifting in its bowl, give him fifteen minutes of downtime before he comes swimming back blank and bug-eyed, begging for a gentle touch? 

“Contrary to what you apparently think,” Ruben says, “I’m not so starved of sex that I think you beating me up and threatening to kill my mom is _romantic_.” He’s scrambled to his feet, fists clenched. “Ian, what the fuck! Who did this to you! You get that you ruined my life, right? You get that you ruined Jason’s life too, that there’s a reason everyone wants you sedated or _dead_.”

He breathes heavily and sees, through the haze of his fury, that Ian has drawn himself up to a seated position. That Ruben actually said these things out loud. Oh, he is so fucked. 

But he can’t help watching Ian closely for some trace of emotion, desperately curious to see if it’s possible to hurt anything other than his pride. Ian’s grinding his teeth, eyebrows pulled together, breathing like a bull and holding himself very still.

“I could make you,” Ian says, “and you’d like it. It’d be better than with Jason. I know how he fucks, trust me, you haven’t missed anything there.” 

Ruben’s head is far too full most of the time but right now it feels empty but for the anger and _I could make you_ , Ian’s voice echoing. Ruben turns away. He walks to the door, and tries the handle. It’s open. He steps out into the corridor, and away from their room, towards the elevator. 

“Ruben!” 

Ruben hears footfalls behind him, keeps going. He jams his finger hard against the button for the elevator. 

“Ruben, I have your passport, you can’t just walk out of here.” Ian fetches up panting beside him; he’s gripping his own hands together, crushing them like it’s taking all the strength he has not to slam Ruben against the elevator doors, or the wall, or the floor. 

“I just did,” Ruben mumbles. 

The doors slide open, and the elevator stands open and empty. Ian says, low and urgent, “please.” 

Ruben steps inside the elevator; Ian snatches at his sweater, and then lets go, growls at him. 

Ruben turns to face him, and wonders if he’ll ever enter an elevator again without an awful shudder of nerves. “Go and get my passport,” he says. “And my bag. My notebook. If you give me them, I’ll come back to the room with you.”

It could almost be Jason, looming silently over him in with a face knotted with fury; straining internally, waiting for Ruben to break, wavering, and turning. But it isn’t Jason. Ian lets out a grunt of frustration and strides away down the corridor. Ruben turns towards the mirror and sees himself, eyes wide and mouth twisted downwards. There’s a tiny red smear on the glass. The doors slide closed and Ruben lets his head tip forward to rest against the mirror. He sobs, a small tremor of a thing, and reaches out blindly to thumb the button for the doors. They slide smoothly open again. 

Sound of a throat clearing, unmistakably Jason. Ian. Unmistakably Ian. 

Ian tosses the bag at his feet. Ruben bends down to pick it up. Passport, wallet, notebook. Ian’s also stuffed his shades in there. 

“Let’s go back,” Ian says. 

Ruben takes a deep breath, his finger hovering over the button, and steps out. 

They walk the small stretch of corridor back to the room in silence. Ian closes the door behind them, and Ruben turns and pushes up against him, body against body, Ian’s back to the door. Ian’s eyes are alight, burning. 

Ruben stands up on his toes, to breathe into Ian’s mouth: “Give me the keycard.”

Ian sticks a hand in his pocket and pulls it out; he dangles it in front of Ruben with some approximation of a smirk, and Ruben snatches it from him and stuffs it in his own pocket. He leans in and kisses Ian roughly, biting more carelessly than he should, rubbing his beard against Ian’s chin, noses bumping. The depth of this scares him; though it’s always there, he doesn’t often dare to look down into the heart of it. When he does the degree to which he wants to lose himself is dizzying. Ian’s mouth against his is searing, and he bites back, shoves his tongue in Ruben’s mouth.

Ruben takes a step backwards and tugs Ian with him, keeps going until they hit the bed and he tumbles onto it. There’s a flare of panic stretching the span of a few seconds, trapped with the entire bulk of Ian over him, and then he shoves at Ian and Ian rolls obligingly over and lets Ruben crawl on top of him and press him back down. 

“This,” Ian says breathlessly, “this is entertainment. I knew you’d be fun.”

“Shut up,” Ruben says. He’s way too hot, burning up inside. He pulls feverishly at his shirt and gets it over his head, tosses it aside. God, he’s out of shape, but, he finds thrillingly, also out of shame. He rocks down on Ian’s waist and feels where Ian’s hard against him, groans. Ruben fumbles and gets his pants down over his thighs, boxers too. 

“Is this also entertainment?” he says wildly, squeezing his dick. “Am I entertaining you sufficiently?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, kneels up and shuffles forward with his cock out until it’s right there over Ian’s smug hungry face, and waits, until Ian’s mouth stretches wide in a grin and he slowly opens his mouth. 

It’s a minor revelation, the wondrous selfishness of it, watching his dick slide between Ian’s lips, and the feeling of it is almost too much, the hot wet clamp on his cock, the obscene slide of Ian’s tongue. Ruben’s hips jerk forward and Ian somehow manages to growl around him; Ian reaches out a hand behind him and shoves a pillow behind his head, and then Ian closes his eyes, puts his hands on Ruben’s ass and Ruben’s cock slides deeper, somehow, and Ruben makes a desperate noise. 

He feels it building quickly as he rocks into Ian’s mouth, slides his hands into Ian’s hair to steady himself, pleasure shuddering through him, and he blurts out something incoherent, tries to pull out, but Ian grunts and squeezes his ass so Ruben shoves it back in and fucks him roughly, comes half down his throat and half in his mouth, with a cry that’s almost a wail. 

He leans back, eyes closed, and drifts on it for a few seconds until he hears a hoarse laugh. Ian, lifting an arm to wipe at Ruben’s come smeared over his chin. 

“Whaddaya want, Rubes? Want me to fuck you? Wanna return the favor?” 

Ruben shakes his head, because the idea of owing Ian favors is not something he wants to touch right now, even in his post-orgasm haze. Still, he wants to touch Ian, see him, feel him, make him feel.

He tugs Ian’s pants down until Ian gets with the program and helps kick them off, rucks up Ian’s t-shirt to kiss the planes of his chest, and then jerks him off as slowly as he dares, Ian’s cock a pleasing weight in his hand, while Ian bites his lip and watches him intently, biting off a _motherfucker_ at one point when Ruben takes his hand away and leaves him to push up against nothing. Ruben could keep going for a good while like this, he realizes, watching Ian get needier, his neck and face get blotchier. Make him learn some patience. But he wants to see Ian shoot off, and he wants to get out of this room, so he tightens his grip and says, “Do it already, Ian,” and Ian does, head thrown back, his come spurting over Ruben’s hand. 

Ruben rises, tucks his dick back in and goes to run his hand under the tap. His skin feels sticky as he gets back into his clothes. Ian grumbles but follows his lead. Ruben is not going to call any attention to Ian’s strange - docility - because he’s sure it’ll vanish instantly if he does. 

They ride the elevator down in silence. Ruben rubs his finger over the tiny smear of dried blood, and licks it clean. 

\--

They’re nearly late for their flight, rushing through security; Ian’s restlessness doesn’t re-emerge as Ruben had feared it would, and when they take their seats, he doesn’t come over to talk Ruben’s neighbour into changing places. He pats Ruben on the shoulder, once, as they’re standing in line to board the plane, smirks, and says, “Good trip, Ruben. I’ll be in touch with you soon.” 

It’s another four hours of cramped limbs and aches all over, Ruben’s stiff body crying out for sleep, but for some reason he can’t drift off. Some vacation, he thinks. Out of the window he can see a dark carpet of cloud, orange tinged at the horizon as the sun slips down over the edge of the world. Just a few days left for Jason, if Ian gets what he wants. 

He can’t quite grasp the immensity of that, of what he’s given away today. In place of where the guilt should be there’s a thrumming in his veins, a steady pulse of _I’m here I’m here I’m still here._

No tropical paradise for Ruben Marcado, no running away from the mess he’s ensnared in. But he walked out a hotel room, and he’s coming back home. Not bad, he thinks, for a shitty hand. Not bad at all. He closes his eyes and listens to the low steady hum of the plane, carrying him forward into whatever comes next.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are loved. I'm kiwisatsuma on tumblr, talk to me about bad things happening to Ruben.


End file.
